


Do Me A Solid

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Public Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2609816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is holding a gun to the Penguin's head. He has to shoot him or risk the wrath of the mob. Oswald is willing to do anything to save his life.<br/>Anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Me A Solid

The boy gibbered, wept, clawed at Jim's trousers as he begged for his life. Anything, anything. Gordon wanted to reassure him, but he couldn't with Bullock watching. He herded the boy to the edge of the water. He had to think, needed a moment to cultivate the germ of an idea that had taken root the second he'd grabbed the boy from the trunk.

“Please—please! Don't kill me please! I'll do anything!”

Gordon gave him another shove. “Go to the edge.”

The sight of his destination renewed the boy's struggles. “No! No, Gordon, Jim, I can be of help to you! I can do things, things no one else can do! Please!”

“Turn around.”

The boy fell to his knees instead. “Please!”

Jim shoved him again, his heart giving out. He growled, “what's your name?”

The light that sprung up in the boy's eyes was almost painful to see. “Oswald. Oswald Kap-Cobblepot.” He gulped. “And you're Jim.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jim could feel Bullock watching over his shoulder. He snuck a look back.

Hands found his belt buckle.

“Hey, what—“he yelped, drawn back to the scene before him. Oswald had one hand on Jim's belt, eyes locked on his face. His had the most intense look Jim had ever seen: fear, determination, and avarice transformed his face from its former pathos.

“Please,” he said in a husky monotone, “don't kill me. I'll do anything.” His fingers wiggled beneath Jim's belt. _“Anything.”_

Jim stammered the beginning of several words, forever mindful of his partner. He was so startled he nearly dropped his gun. Jim hunched his shoulders, trying to look like he was telling Cobblepot off. His free hand went to the boy's hair.

“What the hell are you doing?” he whispered fiercely. Oswald put a finger to his lips.

“He's watching,” Oswald said in a cracked whisper, “he'll be expecting this. They all do it.” His free hand moved to Gordon's thigh, petting, soothing.

Because he couldn't think of anything else, Jim stammered out “I have a girlfriend.”

Oswald's face shifted subtly. “Of course you do,” he said. His voice was a blend of contempt, apathy, anger and an underlying note he couldn’t quite place. Longing? Envy? Bitterness? He pawed at Gordon's fly, pleading with his gaze.

“Come on,” he said, “he'll get suspicious.”

And what cinched it was when he looked back and caught Harvey looking at him. His expression of puzzlement turned to mild disgust and then resignation, before he turned away and lit a cigarette.

While Jim was distracted, Oswald slid his zipper down and slipped cold fingers into his fly.

“Hey!”

Oswald smiled. He looked like a little boy dressed for church, acting out. The comparison did nothing for Gordon's enthusiasm.

“I like you Jim,” Oswald said, “I think you're a good cop. I don't think you want to shoot me. I certainly don't want you to shoot me.” He cocked his head. “I think we could be good for each other.”

“Listen,” Gordon gasped, “I'm not—”

“You're not anything,” Oswald soothed, “this isn't anything but good friends doing each other a solid.”

His eyes were like ice, they radiated a cold magnetism. His skin was so pale, and so cold. Everything about him was arctic. If you brushed a hand against him, it might stick.

Oswald wasn't afraid anymore, but he was still trembling.

“Please,” he asked, his voice thick, “let me help you.”

Maybe it was the week he'd been having, Barbara's pinched expression of worry, Bullock's deliberate unhelpfulness, the beating, the corruption. But Jim relented, and placed his hand on the boy's head.

“Go on,” he said wearily.

Oswald's smile brightened. Inside Jim's pants, cold fingers found his briefs and caressed up and down.

Jim was not what's you'd call an exhibitionist, but Harvey's presence nearby gave a strange intimacy to this encounter. Or was it fear? Certainly something that worked past his resistance, made him roll his hips forward when Oswald's fingertips brushed his cock through the thin cotton.

Oswald smiled like the proverbial cat and dared to probe in the front flap. Jim was already semi-hard and slightly embarrassed about it. The fingers that curled around him were still cold, but the effect was slightly invigorating. Their effect became apparent when Oswald finally brought him out into the open.

The younger man seemed slightly impressed, slightly envious.

“Of course you're hung,” he said dryly, giving Jim a little squeeze, “why did I suspect otherwise?”

“What's the matter, you mistake my badge number for my measurements?” Jim asked.

The two men looked at each other and then broke into chuckles. It wasn't so much that the joke was funny, it was that the situation was so absurd you had to laugh. But not at each other. Not at the ravenous look Oswald was suddenly giving him, not the shortness of breath Jim felt when Oswald finally began moving his hand. He switched grips, from underhand to overhand, pumping so that the throbbing head of Jim's penis now pointed more or less directly at his grinning mouth. Jim gave a sharp gasp of appreciation and petted his hair.

“Hey, while we're young!” Harvey called from somewhere behind them. Both men jumped, reminded that they weren't actually alone. Oswald gave Jim an oddly apologetic look and opened his mouth.

The contrast between the sharp air or the dock and the moist velvet heaven of Oswald's mouth nearly made Jim drop his gun. Jim let out a breath like he'd just plunged into icewater, and he gripped Oswald's hair in one hand.

Jim was not a blowjob aficionado. Barbara was very understanding, very accommodating, but _oh dear God_ could that boy use his tongue.

No,  _boy_ seemed like an unfair judgment, Jim ruminated, he just seemed younger because of his dress and mannerisms. Kinda Norman Batesy/Alex Delarge-esque stuff. Really, he was probably closer to Gordon's age than he seemed. Which made all this marginally less creepy. Oh well, Jim thought as Oswald's lips rode his cock up and down, you take comfort where you can. 

Oswald was almost suspiciously enthusiastic, smiling even, as he went about his task. He made throaty little approval noises as he sucked Jim off, as if he were enjoying it just as much as Jim. The guy was good. Practiced, Jim realized with a sinking heart. The hand on Oswald's hair turned tender, petting him. Oswald made a needy noise and forced Jim's fingers to grip his hair again, rougher this time. Jim felt like a doll being posed by an impatient child; Oswald did all the work, told him where to go and what to do. 

And he liked it, in a weird way. 

Jim looked out at the ships. He was trying to keep a hold on himself. He was a good cop. He was a good cop. This was a good blowjob. Oh, fuck, he was slipping. Slipping. Oh God, this kid's mouth was so  _slippery_ . 

Gordon bit back a groan. Oswald moaned in response. His hands were massaging Jim's thighs, one creeping up finger-by-finger to Jim's ass. That was it. If he squeezed Jim's ass, this would all be over.

Jim wasn't sure which part of this he wanted Harvey to see less, that he was fraternizing(heavily) with a suspect, or that he was enjoying it so much. He tried to keep his cries low, stifle them, but Oswald found his left buttock. Swirling his palm covetously around it three times, Oswald gripped a handful and squeezed before releasing it, and then bringing his hand back in a stinging smack. Jim yelped in surprise, and then gasped as he came in Oswald's mouth. He had meant to spare him a little, as courtesy, but Oswald, eyes closed, cheeks full, looked too satisfied to be very upset by the oversight. He let Jim slide from his mouth slowly, savoring it like a popsicle, giving the head a little sucking kiss before he released it.

Jim came back to himself as the cold sea air hit his rapidly-shrinking cock. He was here. On a mission. With a purpose.

Hastily tucking himself in, he hefted his gun again. “Turn around,” he barked, loud enough for Bullock to hear.

Oswald's face scattered, not sure how to react.

“Turn around,” Jim repeated lower, indicating behind him with a jerk of his head.

Oswald tumbled immediately. He put up a great show of reluctant begging as Jim put the gun just above his head.

“I don't wanna see you in Gotham again,” Jim said. Even he wasn't sure if it was a plea or a threat. He was in an emotional tangle right now, and it felt good to see Oswald hit the water and then swim away. Of course he was an excellent swimmer.

Jim holstered his gun, tried to make himself presentable, and went to face his partner.

 


End file.
